The Echo and the Fulcrum
by Aeria
Summary: A very epic, very, very smut-ty look at the relationship between Rose and the human version of the Doctor she was left with. Rose feels obligated to try for a relationship because that's what the Doctor would have wanted.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Well, some of you might remember me from a couple of years ago as a prolific Ten and Ten/Rose smut/romance writer. I've had a bit of a break though this 20,000 word epic has been slowly coming together on my harddrive and now I'll present it to you in five parts over the next week. It is very smutty and at times a bit dark but it's my take on the somewhat difficult relationship between Rose and her human Doctor and how it might have worked out. Much thanks to lj user=chicklet73 who has been looking at bits and pieces of this for almost two years. Please let me know what you think, adjustments are still being made to the ending and I do value any feedback, happy, not so happy, critical or not. Other than that, I can only ask that you enjoy it.

It was a difficult relationship. She never really trusted him properly and he never really understood her grief. But they got over it, slowly; he learnt to tell her what he was thinking and she learnt that he was still her Doctor, that somewhere in there was the man she loved, or rather, somewhere in their future, he was waiting. Two weeks after their new life started, she saw the first glimmer, a moment of amusement at something on the tele and she'd seen it before, an age ago and on another man's face in Dickens's England. But it was there. That's when she started to suspect the true meaning of the Doctor's words, started to suspect that she could fall in love with this man if only she could help the process along.

So she tried, every day she made an effort to help him, to keep him sane and beside her and she knew he was trying as well and over the days, the weeks, the months they became close, became friends, then best friends, got an apartment, had adventures because she knew nothing would ever be able to keep him from that, and with every victory, every failure, every outcome in between, she saw a little more of what she wanted. He wasn't the same, he was always an echo, but there were days - and she'd never admit this to anyone - when the echo seemed louder than the original sound.

Today has been such a day. They've spent hours hidden in a maze of dark alleyways, chasing, being chased and eventually winning out, sending someone to prison, someone else home and then collapsing on a park bench as the sun sets behind them. And they feel very much content. Him in his grey worn jeans and dark green shirt, her in tights and a flowing cotton skirt, her top a couple of shades lighter than his; they look every bit the average couple.

The happy couple even, she finally thinks that perhaps she is happy. She glances sideways at him, wondering at the man there, neither the Doctor nor the ghost of him that she'd been left with on that beach. Someone new and seemingly hers. Is this her moment to move the relationship further in the intended direction? What she feels can't be identified as love, she's still not sure that she will ever feel love again, but she likes this man, likes being around him and he seems to feel the same for her. Surely her Doctor had meant for them to fall in love and grow old together; she feels indebted to at least try for that.

"Wanna go and grab dinner?" she asks, a faint waiver to her voice that should forewarn of what's to come.

He looks at her, notes the streak of mud on her neck and, deciding it suits her, doesn't bother to mention it. Shrugging he moves to stand, "Sure, why not."

Her hand wraps around his and she pulls him back down to sit beside her. "Not just take out for back at the apartment, a proper meal," she stresses.

His brow creases as he realizes that there's a subtext here he doesn't know about. "Sure," he answers carefully, slowly, no longer attempting to stand and get moving.

"Like a date," she announces.

She's refusing to meet his eyes so she doesn't see it, but his face lights up like a thousand watt globe and he scrambles to find the words. He settles on: "Absolutely!" and a slightly more tempered grin as he links his arm through hers and pulls her up, heading for the nearest street. "I thought you'd never ask."

That throws her and she misses a step, ending up walking alongside him at an awkward, mismatched pace. He laughs again, not noticing the look on her face, or at the very least ignoring it.

They make it another hundred meters before she has to speak up. "It's not like this is a promise," she points out, a little too much strength in her voice. "We're just trying it because obviously that's what we should do."

His expression turns to unsure thought, she sees it and continues, wanting desperately for him to understand. "I mean we live together and eat together and basically spend all our time together and get along so we should try dating." The uncertainty, the thought leave his face and his eyes darken with nothing. She should stop. Stop and possibly walk away because his arm has dropped from hers and his pace had sped up until she's jogging to keep up with him. She doesn't stop or flee, doesn't even fight, she struggles to even identify that something is wrong. She keeps talking. "When my Doctor left me with you, this is what he meant to happen, he wanted us to have the life he couldn't, to grow old and -"

His hands grab at her suddenly, vicious and making her jump, manipulating and rough he shoves her back until she's against the cold brick wall of a building, his hand slamming down mere millimeters from her face as now she considers running, her mind quickly changing as she realizes she's stuck there, shaking. The word curls out of his mouth, dark and dangerous, "What?" She'd forgotten he could be this dark.

Mouth opening and closing, her eyes flicker everywhere, determined to cry out if she sees a stranger walking by. He sees her intention and quickly drags her, still unrelenting, around a corner into a shadowed alleyway. Now a hand either side of her face, his weight resting there and his lithe frame so much bigger in the shadows. "What?" he repeats in a snarl.

She can't form words, every small movement from him resulting in her eyes closing and her body flinching like she half expects him to hit her. Her fear should be enough to quell his anger but he isn't near done. "You want to date me because he told you to? You plan on going to dinner and flirting, drinking wine, because you think that's what he would want?"

She's nodding, her head just tilting in the slightest, unable to help herself from adhering to a truth so strong, her only truth left, her only sure thing: compliance with her Doctor's wishes.

Her actions make his words stumble, his face creasing back into a mosaic of pain, uncertainty, pure anger. "Is that why you're still with me, because of him, because he told you to?"

She doesn't nod this time but he decides for himself and his rage renews. "So what if we did go for dinner? Wine and Italian, messy and laughing and having fun with each other. More wine and desert, you sitting there twirling your hair and smiling up from under your lashes and making me watch as you licked your spoon clean, tongue and lips and what, more wine? Then what?" His voice is low now, his lips hardly moving as he speaks, face level with hers. "Home, we live together, more wine there? How much wine would it take before you let me fuck your brains out? Before that twisted little mind of yours has its excuse, can say you're doing it for him and only him and that this is all sacrifice. Spread you legs and let me spend hour after hour making you come like an animal, let me waste time perfecting what I think makes you happy, perfecting my knowledge of your body, of where and when to use my fingers, my tongue, my cock, what makes you scream, what makes you shiver, waste forever trying to learn your every atom while you try to forget what we're doing and remember him?" Stopping suddenly, drawing a ragged breath and closing his eyes to stop the tears he misses the sound of a sob wrenched from her lips unwillingly, the roar of blood in his ears too much.

When he opens his eyes again he's regained full control and his face is a carefully assembled mask of ice and steel. She glares at him, her tears held at bay by sheer will alone and the urge to beat him, with fists and knees, anything she can cause harm with, kept in check only by his body looming over hers. "I'm just trying to do what I'm meant to," she bites out, anger overriding the sorrow in her voice so effectively he doesn't hear it.

Voice level, dangerous, "Since when do you take orders?"

"He gave this to me like it was a gift, like it was what I always wanted and I was so screwed up by that point that I didn't know what to do. So I did what he said, what other option was there?"

He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like it's been written in the stars since the beginning of time and she's blind to have missed it: "Fall in love with ime/i."

She huffs, shock rendering everything else peripheral. "It's that easy? Just transfer my feelings onto a completely different man? We are strangers and I am trying to build something from scratch, that's why we were going to dinner, not because I'm in love with you or because I know I should be, because I'm meant to build something with you from scratch, from nothing, we have nothing."

Another wall gets put up around his emotions, she watches it carefully built just behind his eyes and feels a pang deep inside her. "You never asked, " he says in a whisper, the hands on either side of her face no longer a threat but now the only thing keeping him upright. "You never understood. When I was...made, I got all of his memories, his way of thinking, I didn't get his emotions, I'm not built like that, but I got to remember every single thing we ever did together and I got to think about them, know the way he felt through them. I fell in love with you over night, who wouldn't?"

It wasn't expected that she smile at him, it wasn't expected that she understand but he saw only anger and distrust washing over her face and he couldn't believe that this was his Rose Tyler, the woman he'd thought, not ten minutes ago, was finally warming to him, was finally going to let him inch his way in.

A thumb tangled in her hair, catching it between brick and skin and touching, just barely. "I'm going to leave you because this is going to tear me apart. And that will tear you apart and I can't watch that. That's remained constant through all of time, I could never stand to see you hurt."

Pushing away from her he turns to leave, his shoulders hunched, dejected and angry at existence itself, his and hers and the universe's. The cold night air he'd been shielding her from hits her like a wall of ice and he barely makes it two steps before she finds her voice, stronger than at any point previous. "Wait."

He doesn't want to stop, to hope but he can't help himself. He doesn't turn.

"I do like you. I like this life and yeah, I keep pushing it because he made sure I understood this was what he thought was best but if I disagreed with him I'd stop. I see him in you all the time now and I want to keep trying."

Still not turning, his back straightens and he whispers. "I don't want you to see him in me. I'm not him, I don't think I'll ever be exactly him, you're not meant to be able to confuse us. I want you to fall in love with me."

That angers her for some reason, that he wants her to feel a certain way, it angers her enough to take a few steps towards him and raise her voice enough to make him flinch when she speaks. "But I can't, if I love you, I love you for everything you are, what's him and what's you. And this whole," her hands wave around in the air though he didn't see it and then they dropped to her sides as she realized the word she was looking for and spat it out like something dirty. "This jealousy, is ridiculous."

Whirling around, he didn't expect her so close and the yell was unjustified. "You don't think I know that? I'm jealous of myself, on some absurd level, that's what it boils down to. But admit it, you love him and you don't love me. You'd go to bed with him in a second but never with me, not willingly, not happily. Not without thinking of him."

"No," she cut across him, her own voice now raised. "No, these things take time and I still don't know you well enough to be sure."

"You know everything about me, you've listened to me rant and rave on every topic imaginable and if you can't even consider letting yourself try, we're a lost fucking cause."

The argument lapses for the second time that evening as they stare, mere inches from each other but squinting because they still can't quite see. Her mind is ticking over though, throttling towards an answer she isn't ready for but that is looming undeniable. "You really mean everything you've said here tonight?" she asks, voice like a knife.

Unable to comprehend why or what she's asking, he answers quickly, honestly, "No."

Her face falls, he's lied, he doesn't love her, doesn't need her, all of it was the heat of argument and that hurts her more than she expected it to. He doesn't understand her expression but he continues his explanation regardless. "I couldn't walk away from you, even if it meant the end of me. Not ever."

Hands alighting on his stomach his intake of air is audible and visible, almost like pain and she wonders. "What about all that stuff about taking me to bed?" In any other situation just thinking about his words would have made her blush but now it was too important.

Utterly lost in how the conversation has ended up here and mortified as he recalls what he said to her, anger at his own confusion builds again to flash point. He responds without thinking, "Rose I would make you happy however I could and I know the tug between us, you and him, all that tension, all that time and god it would be good. I would do things to you that would make you blind with the feel of it and I'd do it forever." She's staring at him now and his mortification seems to only be getting worse. Her head is tilted in the way that means she's thinking, her eyes are a little glazed but she's not saying anything and now he's feeling utterly stupid. "But I wouldn't do it because he told me to, and I wouldn't let you either."

He might be mistaken but the hands against his abdomen seem to be pressing closer, almost thrumming against him and it is becoming a distraction. Then she speaks and the distraction is replaced, "Kiss me."

"What?"

"Kiss me." Not a question, not quite a demand, a request that doesn't fit the context but his eyes are already on her lips, the idea planted in a mind flooded with silly human hormones. But he won't take advantage of her, he just finished saying that, he won't let himself or her feel that disgusting afterwards.

"Why?"

"Because I want you to." No reaction, his body had stopped, she can't feel the thrum of blood beneath her hands, the rise and fall of his chest. Nothing. His eyes are closed, his face downturned. Nothing. All she wants is a touch, a taste, a test, but she can't bring herself to kiss him, needs him to initiate, to show her he isn't just saying it. She tries again: "Because -" and gets no further.

His mouth and body pelt down against hers, colliding into her a hundred times more forcefully than it had been when he pushed her against the wall. She stumbles but he catches her, large hands no longer careful not to touch in the wrong place, both finding her waist, her hips, her ass and at the same time, his mouth grabbing for hers, knocking, once, twice, at the wrong angle, teeth bumping, his nose pressing painfully into hers and then he gets it right and his lips are pressed to hers, hot and wet and nothing like that one other time on the beach. Too hot, too quick he has her mouth open under his and his tongue's slipping inside, exploring like this was his last chance to try, pulling back and nipping, licking and kissing at her lips, her chin her nose, a brief interlude as he drags his own nose up her cheek, nuzzling, his eyelashes, she could swear, brushing over her skin, and then gentleness was gone and his tongue was back in her mouth, persuading hers to dance and finding the task less than difficult.

Unrelenting, his hands find her arse, grasp as best they can around the material of her skirt and pull her up and closer to him, leaving her teetering on her toes and with both arms looped beneath his in a effort to fight vertigo. She can feel him already hard against her leg, hard and ever so hot and human, burning with lust and if she believes him, with love and as his lips are torn from hers, his head throw back she half expects him to howl but it's a growl instead, emerging from low in his throat as he grinds against her.

Lips to her ear, her body now limp with a new kind of fear. "I do love you, Rose," he whispers, his hips still grinding into her leg, searching for some sort of release. "And I think you can love me. But if for even one second you're thinking about doing this for him and not for us, you need to stop me now because I am going to love making love to you, even if it has to be in some dark dingy alley, and I won't be able to stop."

She makes to kiss him again but he stops her with a look. "I don't mean now, I mean forever. If you make love to me, you own me, forever." In that moment, in that admission, he looks lost and lonely and completely unsure and she realizes that all she's put him through, all the excuses, all the talk of the other man, means that now he half expects her to run. But something's changed and the echo's so loud she can't even remember what it was that caused it and she doesn't give a damn how or when or why, she knows she wants the man currently wrapped around her and she knows she will fall in love with him, in some strange way, in a way that will only get stronger and it all translates, dragging the anger and pain of months along with it into pure need. She buries her face in his neck, tongue and teeth finding skin and pulse point; her hands finding his arse to drag him closer, harder and then pushes his length down her thigh, catching a leg between hers and making sure the friction catches her where she needs it as well.

The noise they make is primal, a collection of guttural groans and grunts and whimpers and in that one motion, hormone-crazed and desperate, they decide the future.

He grins at her manically, wildly, with a glint in his eye that scares her and makes her giggle at the same time and then he stalks her, across the alley, walking her back through the shadows with his eyes until she hits a wall and stands there as he watches, predator surveying prey.

Lunging, his lips find her throat, light kisses up and down as his hands alight on her shirt, fiddling with buttons too small for his long fingers. Her own hands getting in the way as she attacks his buttons until she sees reason and moves down to his jeans, finding it far easier to flick the single button loose and drag the zipper down, letting gravity do the rest until there's a denim pool at his feet. He growls and lets his tongue find the spot behind her ear, makes her breath catch and her back arch, presenting the buttons a little better but they're still so difficult. He growls and she giggles again, slightly self-conscious, he can tell and without even considering he catches her earlobe in his lips, tugs, gets her attention and starts muttering, telling her she's beautiful, telling her she's his, that he's hers even if she doesn't know it yet, he promises that one day, soon, so, so soon, she'll feel it sweeping through her, but for now he's going to do his best to make her feel something else sweep through her, make her feel like she's got the power of a goddess and then the muttering is punctuated by a shout of victory as the last button isn't so much taken care of as ripped out of the way.

About to giggle, the sound dies on her lips as he ignores the flimsy material of her bra and sucks a nipple through it, teeth and tongue, unrelenting, untesting, just nipping, lapping, hands coming up to help and suddenly she's squirming, feeling the heat of a scorching summer pouring through her and pooling at the bottom of her stomach and she shudders as he blows air over the material, shudders again as she feels his lips quirk into a smile as he kisses down the valley between.

Stepping back, just for a moment, he pulls his own shirt over his head and drops it onto the messy ground below; turning to look at her like the devil himself, his face is cast in shadows, the light from the street now purely artificial: the sun's fully set. He's ready to pounce again when the sound of voices, of footsteps makes her squeak in shock and in an instant he's pressed up against her, into the wall, a hand over her mouth as he wills no intrusion. Together they watch the group of passers-by walk past the alley opening, not fifteen meters from where they stand, half naked and blatantly aroused.

It might have broken the mood if Rose hadn't snaked a hand down between them and wrapped it around his cotton clad hard-on, stroking down once, twice before he manages to grab her wrist and pull her away

Her tongue catches between her teeth and she pulls a face, challenging him, "No?"

He kisses her then, hard and long and tasting more of them than ever. His lips move to the ear he ignored last time and he whispers in half-caught breaths. "I wanna come inside you," a hand manages to make it past hers and dart under the skirt, cupping her through tights and knickers and she gasps. "And before all of that, I wanna make you come." He strokes rough and uncalculated but with the reward of her eyes falling shut and her breath catching. "Hard." She shudders at his words. "And I want to see it."

And this time she moans, long and low and the tongue dragged down her neck doesn't help. She's hazy and unsure of anything much but that suddenly her chest is cold, the only material left covering her is her bra which, she's shocked to realize, is quite soaked with his saliva and her sweat. She looks down and sees his mussed up hair, now level with her belly button.

He can't actually plan on doing what it looks like and it's this rationalization and only this that keeps her from losing it entirely. Her skirt is lifted, the soft material carefully manipulated and he tucks it all into the elastic, the material bunched at her waist and the rest of her left bare except for the opaque tights. She moves to help him roll them down but a hand on each thigh, impossibly large hands that cover so much skin and radiate so much heat, stop her movements.

Voila…ending of Part One and quite the run on scene. I'll warn you, it all gets more run-on and more talky and more smutty from here. Reviews will be rewarded with squee!


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Wow, I really did not expect such a lovely reception to that first chapter. Thank you all so much for reviewing and telling me what you thought! It really made my day. More smut in this chapter, probably pushing the envelope just a little bit more but we'll see.

It is very smutty and at times a bit dark but it's my take on the somewhat difficult relationship between Rose and her human Doctor and how it might have worked out. Much thanks to lj user=chicklet73 who has been looking at bits and pieces of this for almost two years. Please let me know what you think, adjustments are still being made to the ending and I do value any feedback, happy, not so happy, critical or not. Other than that, I can only ask that you enjoy it.

He looks up and it's the same measuring expression she usually sees behind his glasses (actual prescription now, and truly necessary for any reading at all) and then looks back down again. Rationalization holds out until she feels his breath on her stomach and can no longer see the ground between them, her teeth clench and she shuts her eyes, unable to watch for the feel of need pooling in the pit of her stomach, threatening to spill over and force her to beg.

His teeth make contact with her skin through the dark tights on her belly. Not quite what she had in mind and there's no tongue, no heat but for his breath. His hands are there, no caress, picking like the teeth, tugging and nipping and then she feels the seem that runs from her belly button down, between her legs and up the small of her back, feels the seem pulled away by his teeth and his hands fly to his aid and then she feels the seam pulled tight against her giving her a spike of obscene pleasure, hears the tear of nylon as his teeth break the threads and the stitches come quickly undone.

Legs turning to water, she steadies herself with a hand to the wall behind her back, forcing herself up a little as the feel of his breath so close makes her own breath quicken. What remains of her tights slowly give in to gravity, peeling away until they're hanging off her at mid-thigh and all that's left between his mouth and where it needs to be are her black cotton panties.

For a reason she will later find unfathomable, she expects him to let her step primly out of them. Prepares to push off the wall and mange the maneuver when she feels his mouth on her through the cotton. Now there's tongue and this is when she realizes how wet she is, when he realizes he wants to taste her more than he wants to breathe. Potent, intoxicating bliss, is all he can think and before this moment, he had no idea human's were capable of such sensory overload but now there's taste and smell and the texture of it tingling against his tongue. A few more presses of his open-mouth, tongue lapping and he finds his comparisons with a drug are more than adequate, intoxication giving way to addiction. But, to continue further with the metaphor, he knows in that forever calculating part of his mind, that this is merely the sweet, sticky pre-mix beverage, knows if he concentrates he can get to the absinth and lose himself there in a few seconds of devouring. His hands find the crotch of her panties and try desperately to move the cotton adversary out of the way but it's all too complicated and with an angry growl that vibrates through her core, he holds them aware from her body and manages again to break the right thread with his teeth and unravel the rest.

He's terrifying her now in the most delicious of ways.

Body sagging against the bricks with that simple sound, tearing fabric denoting such desperation on a man and all for her, her back arches when his tongue first touches, a flicker out and into her, finding the core of her almost embarrassingly wet and hot and then sliding his tongue back into his mouth and tasting so, so carefully: his Rose.

Strange at first and he wonders if that's because this tongue, his tongue, has never tasted a woman. Strange at first quickly giving way to dynamic and over-powering, urging him back and only now does he glimpse the landscape before him, panties shredded, tights similar, now reminiscent of knee-highs, skirt bunched and her skin flushed and with a sheen of sweat. Beautiful, and he says it.

She doesn't really respond except to groan impatiently and roll her hips off the wall, closer to his mouth and to that sound, that motion, he needs no further invitation.

Hands to her thighs, spreading them and pulling her down the wall until she's at the right level, hand to her ankle, drawing her leg over his shoulder, giving her a platform in the shape of his back beneath the thigh now beside his neck, hand under her ass, stilling, steadying. A final movement, a hand tickled up her body, between her breasts, and by god she is about done with his games and so close to saying it but as he stretches and stretches, middle and pointer fingers tapping at her collar bone, arm outstretched, his words beat hers and quite simply shut her up. "Suck."

Nothing to do but comply, she takes the two offered fingers in her mouth and sucks, long and hard and reveling in the moan it pulls from him. He reclaims his fingers, traces them over a nipple and before she can guess the plan, before she can have any idea he'd be so ruthless, those two fingers are pressed against her opening, slickened and pressed and suddenly inside her and then his tongue flicks over her clit and she clenches, the sudden eruption of contact and feeling close to unbearable and she screams, not a porn-star scream, just a high, desperate keening that makes his insides flip and his tongue retrace the same path.

She doesn't scream again but he can feel her body reacting around his fingers, holding tighter each time and knowing how close she is as he slowly starts building a pace, stroking in and out, agonizingly slow, his tongue languid against her, long, tedious patterns that make her whimper and rock and swear under her breath.

His tongue laps a little more directly and his fingers curl just a tad, the motion speeding up for just a second before he slows back down and listens for her frustrated sigh. It's more a mewling but he can live with that. Licks again, from his fingers up, long swirling letters, the letters of a language she doesn't know and that he's half forgotten, spelling out a promise she won't hear and then whispering against her. Tongue harder, fingers faster, he promised to make her come hard, he said nothing about making it last and she wonders if he'd like to draw it out but can't, wonders how hard he is now, wishes she could see or feel, judge her affect on him but can't and another groan escapes as his tongue catches exactly where she needs it. His own groan rattles through her, felt rather than heard and she wonders if hearing her response prompted it.

Next time his fingers curl just right and his tongue laps just there, she doesn't swallow half the moan but opens her mouth and lets loose; it's his name and it's keening, high pitched and breathless and he falters beneath her in the best of ways, his fingers speed up, deeper, faster and his mouth fixates, lips and nose bumping, tongue across flesh sucking and too quickly it's a spiral of lost control.

Her mouth now open, knowing any sound she releases makes him more desperate, knowing him more desperate makes her more vocal and moans his name again and again, with every stroke, louder and louder until she's begging him with each breath, his name, 'please'. 'oh god', 'please', over and over, pressing down until his face is buried against her, his fingers as deep as physics allows and his mouth, open and now, unbelievably, he finds the space to call to her, "Rose."

The loss of his tongue allows her voice to quell to a whimper and she listens, poised mercilessly close to falling and just the tiniest flick of wrist, of finger, of lip, of tongue and she'll be done and she waits, waits, waits.

When he speaks again it's loud enough that she thinks anyone could have heard it, in hindsight, anyone within range to hear that will have already heard her, but she's not thinking of that she's reacting to the word resonating through her, singular, demanding, obscene. "Come."

And with a final stroke of his fingers, his tongue finding her again, she feels all that liquid heat coiled tight inside her, solidify and shatter into a million desperate droplets of pleasure that course through every inch of her, spreading from the tips of her fingers and toes to her core and dancing as lights before her eyes. Her whole body shuddering hard and long as his fingers retreat and his tongue invades, pressing up into her and moving in a way his fingers can't, drawing her climax out, letting her grind down against his mouth and ignoring his need for air, content to live off the sounds still escaping her lips; whimper and moan and gasp all drawn into one, his name repeated slipping from her tongue as the lights behind her eyes spark and die and she slowly stills.

When he's fairly sure she can balance herself for long enough for him to stand, he does, rocking back on his heels and propelling himself up, shocking her out of her post-climactic daze with a cheeky grin that makes her cheeks blush madly and her gaze dip away from his.

"Oh no, don't dream of getting shy on me, Rose." His voice is husky and strangely strained but his smile conveys that he's excessively pleased with himself and since just thinking about what just happened is making her tingle, she can't really argue. Still she won't quite meet his eyes, unsure how to explain away the extremely embarrassing amount of noise she just made, yet alone the fact that she let him do that to her in a dirty little alleyway. "Rose," he warns in a low voice, the tinge of seriousness making her wonder if he can read her mind.

He kisses her cheek, just chaste and wet and she wonders with a jolt what part of that wetness was hers. "Rose, I promise you, that was the hottest thing I've ever heard. Stop blushing."

Still demanding, even in praise, she feels her back straighten as she tries to comply, knowing somehow that he's telling the truth and, as is the case, feeling a surge of impressiveness as she notices his own flushed cheeks, his askew hair and his lips, glistening and pink. The dying frissons of a moment's ago ecstasy suddenly turn and return to her core. She wonders at how he managed to turn that around so quickly but then she sees the hand resting on her shoulder, two fingers still glistening and wet, too obvious a invitation and he's just told her she's brilliant and fantastic and there's something adventurous here, so she grabs them out of the air, aware that if he realizes he'll simply wipe them clean, and holds them firmly up between them.

He seems suddenly nervous, for whatever strange reason, and his brow furrows as she examines his fingers. She doesn't know it but for the first time since he kissed her, he's not in control, he doesn't know the next move and that scares him a little.

If she did know that those were the thoughts inside his head then her actions would have been exactly the same anyway. Slowly, ever so slowly, so he has to understand what she is about to do, she pulls his hand to her lips, rests the two fingers there, smiles almost demurely, and then sucks them into her mouth, flooding them in hot and wet and so, so similar to where they'd just been but different because now he is watching her face, watching her react to the taste of herself on his fingers, feel her tongue push between the two digits and lap it up, and that combined with the feel of the hot suction of her mouth makes him buck his hips into the foot of empty space between them.

With a last suck and a grin to rival the Cheshire cat, she releases his hand and licks her lips. Staring at her, he has the presence of mind to huff at the sudden audacity, to appear a little put out, like she just snatched his ice cream out of his hand (and he supposes that's a rather good metaphor). Then his pupils dilate and he tastes metal, he's smart enough to know that's the adrenaline and is rather impressed he's remained so calm for so long, but now physiology is overriding everything and his body demands action. Rose is running her tongue over her teeth and that's it: he falls back against her, completely oblivious to anything (gravity, air, the weather, the time) except the burn of the blood in his veins and the need to be inside her. His tongue moves across her lips, seeking entrance and meeting an equal match, stroking against hers and their hands race everywhere and their minds melt, unable to get past the exponential heat of flesh against flesh and the taste of her on his tongue and back again, sinful and blatant between them and it seals the deal that nothing will stop this now: right now.

Her hands burrow down between them, having to push against her and his skin, continuously getting caught as they draw themselves tighter and tighter together but finally finding the cotton waistband of his underwear and mercilessly pushing them down his hips. The feel of his teeth on her shoulder, not biting, pressing into flesh as a growl that borders on pain escapes, makes her pause, bewildered, glancing around, trying to find the cause for the sudden change from desperate for contact, for movement to almost asking for pause. She realizes that it's the terrorizing friction of the waistband moving over him about a second before the motion's complete and grins lazily while a thrill races her spine to find that she's had such an effect on him. Exposed and hot and hard and now pressed uninhibited into her belly the teeth at her shoulder start to nip, his tongue tickling the curve of the muscle as he nuzzles her, quite obviously unable to concentrate on doing much more. Hands on him, making him twitch noticeably at her touch, she squeezes to judge the moment and finds him bucking completely uncontrollably, grunting now and the motion repeating.

Desperate, he seems to have lost all ability to think and is now simply following the base need to thrust up and into whatever she's willing to give, the hotter and tighter the hold, the better. But she's a tease at heart and it won't do to have him spent, she recalls that he's put her through hell a thousand times over to get them to this point, not least of which occurred less than an hour ago when his rage turned on her. So she is going to draw the pleasure out, let herself enjoy while tightening the reins on him, slow him down and torture him until he's begging mindlessly, until it's unbearably clear that he was right, that from now on, he belongs to her.

Limiting the friction, the slip and slide, she wraps a palm around his length and runs her thumb lightly over the tip, relishing the way his breath hitches and he swears just beneath her ear.

There's going to be a height problem, she knows that, he's at least half a foot taller than her and against the wall, she's even worse off. Any attempt to pull his body between her legs - and boy does she plan on attempting that - is going to lose her a few more inches so she really has no other option than to wrap both legs around his waist if she wants this done properly: hard and fast and with the potential for injury. Not yet though, first, she wants to tease him until he can't speak. Feeling his ragged breath on her ear, she doesn't think that will take much.

Right arm around his neck, her right leg lifts, thigh across his hip, calf across arse, she rests some of her weight on him and some on the toes she's again balanced on. With the hand around his length she guides him close to her, hears him whimper at the mere whisper of hot and tight but gives him only a touch, rubbing the tip of him across her entrance, up and then down, the wet heat there echoing what's to come, giving him the slightest taste and at the same time, sending a spike of delicious pleasure up her own spine, her flesh still sensitive as she lets herself enjoy the reality of him.

She keeps going, stroking him against her; delicately but exactly where she needs it and yes, she wants to feel him inside her, wants him to come uncontrollably but as they are there's already another orgasm building in her and from here she can watch the rigid angles of his body, his face as he resists the urge to force her hand, to demand she let him fuck her properly.

And he knows it's a tease, knows it's his job to let her keep going, to murmur sweet nothings in her ear until she takes pity and slides him inside her, but there's too many affecting chemicals in his system for patience, too much dominance in his position to not use it. Not physically, doesn't need it, he's seen her react to his words and with a kiss to her lips that he lets himself groan into he pulls back, ignores the feel of her constant, unrelenting stroking between her legs and says in his most serious, most level voice: "You've got about three seconds to let me bury myself completely inside you or I'm going to start thinking about ways to punish you for this tomorrow and I've got a vivid imagination so I can probably manage -" a well timed, punctuating thrust of his hips almost, almost rewards his aim, but she tenses away from him "- enough dirty thoughts to come all on my own."

The sound she makes is best described as a squeak of shock, both at his choice of words and at the sudden pulse of passion that runs through her. She would very much like to be able to assemble the presence of mind to say something quippy like: "Should have known you'd be a talker. What about a gag next time?" But all she can really think, and she's worried if she opens her mouth it'll come pouring out, is: 'Fuck, he knows how to use that mouth of his, fuck, fuck, fuck, that delicious, over-sexed mouth, fuck.' She wonders if he's realized yet that she swears, usually such a clean mouth but him and sex, sex and him, and her world turns to filth.

But that tongue, manipulating her effortlessly, with words and presses and...speaking of which, it's once again in her mouth, stroking over hers, hungrily.

Hand leaving his cock to join the other wrapped around his neck, both hands bury in his hair, she feels his own hands, large and long and she remembers how good those fingers felt inside her...but now his hands on her waist, waiting for the leg around his back to loosen just enough -

She squeals as he lifts her up, it seems so effortless, it's almost a throw, up and up the wall and then she has a moment where she feels gravity working on her and there's not enough traction to stop, feels herself falling, quick inch by quick inch, her eyes closed against it. Then there's the heat of his chest pressed to her breasts and the biting cold of the wall scraping against her back and she knows he's caught her and oh god, just as she thinks it, all in that one second's motion he's managed to line up so perfectly, read her, read the physics and in the final instant of falling, of her nipples being teased by the scatter of hair on his chest, of their hips bumping over each other, of his tongue still stroking over hers despite the kiss now so messy and unfocussed it's not like any kiss she's ever experienced. In that singular moment of him pressed against her, there's no time for hesitation, or the thought processes required for a slow, sumptuous union; it's simply a swift, hard thrust upward and he's buried inside her to the hilt, a hoarse silent roar escaping his lips as his attack of her mouth finally ends, the stroking motion of his tongue immediately translated to his hips as he wastes no time letting her get used to the feeling of him inside her and begins to rock against her.

It's painful and uncomfortable and oh so good. She wasn't ready, he didn't ask and at this angle every time he slams inside her she feels the contact spread through her, just crossing over into painful, just enough that she has time between sparks of pleasure to notice the scratching at her back, the cramping in her legs, the feeling of being torn apart from the inside out because it has been so, so long and she can't relax and he feels a little too big inside her.

But it's good, in between the pain there's pleasure and she can feel the heat of him smothered against her wherever they touch, all down her front, her neck, the insides of her arms where they're thrown around him, her thighs where they encircle him, it's all heat and friction and it does feel wonderful, even if it's just in the knowledge that finally, here and now, after so long, it's happening.

He grunts against her cheek and this thrust is faster, deeper and she can't help but wince.

He notices and freezes, half inside her, cringing, the pair of them frozen for a second and a half. And then he recoils as much as he can while still inside her, tries to stop touching her though it's impossible with him the only thing keeping gravity at bay, he won't look her in the eye but he's completely still, even a hard rock of her hips doesn't prompt him back into action though she sees his jaw clench. The look on his face is of pure torment, his voice broken. "I'm hurting you."

It's not a question so she can't answer, even if she could, she's not sure she could tell the truth and not make it worse.

Looking like he just realized that the earth has ceased spinning and that he's responsible, he succumbs to the need to stop touching her and grasping her hips gingerly, he lifts her away from him, away from the wall and carefully puts her back on the ground.

With his eyes empty and his lips set in a grimace, the pair of them look ridiculous and immediately she sets about finding her clothes, her top's a little bit dirty and missing a button and as she smoothes her skirt back down she struggles to recognize the tatters of her stockings and knickers. He quickly slips his trousers and shirt back on and, still looking at the ground speaks, his voice low, defeated. "I didn't want it to be like this. All those years...years of waiting, I didn't want it to be like this. I imagined," he swallows, "I imagined that I would be able to take my time, that it would be all for you, hours and hours and hours of exploring and practice and anticipation and when I took you, it would be slow and careful, I'd watch you every moment, have you shaking at the pleasure of it. And now I've gone and done this, in an alleyway, I've trapped you, yelled at you and fucked you up against a wall. I hurt you and I didn't even notice..." his voice trails off only to be replaced by a strangled groan of self-loathing. "I can't even..."

She's a bit beyond understanding the man in front of her and she wonders if it isn't because he's still finding himself. And in spite of herself she's aching at the loss of a half-fulfilled dream. His voice little more than a whisper, he utters "I'm sorry," and then turns on his heel and starts to walk away, close to running back onto the street, into the night and away.

And there's part two. What do you think now? Too dark? Too envelope-pushy? Too angsty? Part 3 tomorrow.


End file.
